With another groan she levered herself out of bed. It was useless. She was never going to able to be able to go back to sleep. She inched the door open. She’d left her tea on the side table. Perhaps the brandy-laced tea would help soothe her into sleep. Or, she almost snorted, she could just snag the bottle of brandy.
She went to the living room, discovering she needed to step carefully around Rue. He slept on the floor, stretched out on his stomach, his hair just long enough to cover his eyes. No pillow but his crossed arms, Dan’s shirt draped over a nearby chair, his jeans low on his hips where inked feathers disappeared under denim. The bandage marred the smooth expanse of his shoulder, clearly visible in the gray pre-dawn light. Tiptoeing like a thief through her own living room, she knelt beside him.
She was just going to check the bandage. She acknowledged that lie as soon as she spun it. His skin felt warm as she traced the feathers. Would he have them colored in? She could see them, like hawk’s wings, a beautiful blend of brown, red and gold darker than his hair. Joss did wonderful work, she thought.
She felt when he woke. The muscles under her hand tensed, braced, then relaxed one by one.
“It’s lovely,” she whispered, fingers trailing down his spine. He shuddered under the touch.
His voice was thick when he responded and her lower body tightened wondering if it were sleep or desire that roughened his tones. “Joss is an artist.”
She traced another feather enjoying the feel of him. “He truly is. I think if I were ever going to be crazy and get a tattoo, I’d definitely go to Joss.”
He turned his head, one dark eye gleaming up at her. “What would you get?”
She drummed fingers on his good shoulder as she thought, noticing with a little thrill that his pulse jumped in his throat. “I’m not certain.” She smiled, trailing her hand down one inked wing. “Though I might get an angel.” She shook her head. “Not one of those goofy little baby angels, but one of the sword carrying kind.”
“Seraphim,” he murmured.
She nodded, “That’s the one.” She tapped the art on his back. “That’s what these are, aren’t they? Angel wings…” She paused. “I thought for a minute they were hawk wings, but….”
He sat up abruptly, much closer than she’d thought. His hand closed over hers, warm and strong. “They’re a reminder and a penance,” he murmured, and she heard sorrow in his voice.
She raised her free hand to his cheek, feeling the warm scrape of his whiskers. In the cool gray light before dawn she leaned in. Be brave, be foolish, she thought, pressing her mouth to his. He froze and for a second she thought she’d read him wrong, but the hand that still held hers tightened and pulled her closer. His mouth opened and he responded, taking the kiss out of her control. She tumbled into his lap, feeling the hard press of him through her sweats. Her hand fell from his cheek down his chest. His heart pounded against her fingers and he groaned into her mouth.
He stopped her hand in its descent, pressing it against his stomach when she would have gone further. Blood pounded in her head, but it wasn’t a migraine. Her pulse thrummed thick and warm, and desire pooled in her belly. “Rue,” she whispered against his lips.
He ripped his mouth away from hers, burying his face at the juncture of shoulder and throat, the scrape of his beard, the harshness of his breath making her shudder. She gasped and pressed against him. He held her steady, just away from him, her hand still trapped by his. “Serafina.” His voice was muffled by her skin, the words whispering across flesh. “This isn’t what you want.”
She shifted her position, straddling his lap and wringing a strangled groan from him. She grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing close. “Rue, I think this is what we both want.”
His hands gripped her hips hard, making her heart leap. She could feel him poised ready to take, ready to give. He closed his eyes leaning in, his forehead touching hers.
“Rue?” she whispered. Her shifting made his breath shudder.
“Serafina,” he said, his voice strained with need, “we can’t be foolish.” His hands flexed in defiance of his words, “No matter how foolish I want to be.” His eyes opened and she could see desire and sad humor in them. “I truly wish... but….”
She closed her eyes, just letting the feel of him hum through her. “I…” she trailed off.
He brushed one hand up through her hair. “I understand completely.” One side of his mouth quirked up in a self-deprecating smile, making her head swim.
From the bedroom her alarm sounded, the harsh squawking making her jump, breaking the mood. “Oh!” She twisted to look at the clock. “I’m supposed to meet a friend of mine at the gym this morning.”
His hand settled warm on the back of her neck, keeping her against him for a moment before he nodded and leaned back. “I’ll get out of your way.”
She knew she should get up, get dressed and let him walk away. Fear shuddered through her that if she let him go right now she’d never see him again. She held him for a moment. “Will I see you again?”
She felt the hesitation in him. “I should walk out of this room and out of your life right now,” he whispered, confirming her suspicions. She leaned back. He looked so torn.
“Please.” She pressed a chaste kiss on his lips. His arms tightened for a moment.
“God forgive me, I don’t want to walk away.”
She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Then don’t.” She smiled, feeling her heart lighten. “Come by at closing time. We’ll have dinner.”
He lifted her to her feet. “I’ll be here.” He snagged Dan’s shirt, pulling it on.
She twisted her hands. “You promise?”
He swung the leather coat around his shoulders, not even flinching as he flexed the injured one. He lifted one of her hands to his lips. “I swear.”
After the door closed behind him, she indulged in a little happy dance, boogying across the living room to the bathroom. Now, all she had to do was decide what to make for dinner.
* * * *
Rue watched her leave. Slouched at a table next to the window of the Artist’s Café, he watched her walk down the street, her pink gym bag swinging behind her, her red hair pulled back into a bouncy tail at the back of her head. Her fluffy orange earmuffs should have been ridiculous, but charmed him instead. He warmed his hands on the cup of coffee he didn’t want to drink. The last thing his system needed was more stimulation.
He closed his eyes for a moment, bringing the early morning back into focus. His body sprang to attention. In all his centuries, he didn’t know you could feel so alive. Temptation had never tasted so sweet.
“Contemplating sin?”
Rue opened his eyes at the gravelly voice. The tall man, skin the color of polished ebony, eyes of shimmering amber, dropped to the seat across from him. “Feel free to sit down,” the fallen angel muttered.
Azrael snorted, taking Rue’s untouched coffee for his own. “You’re treading a thin line, Rue.”
He shrugged, feeling his wounded shoulder pull in response. “I’m living, Az. Living for the first time in my existence.”
The angel sipped silently. “There are advantages to the life, I’ve seen.” His golden gaze met Rue’s. “I’ve seen more than most of you how much love affects them, how they cry when I come for them.”
Cold fear suddenly gripped his bowels. He stared at the serene dark face of the Angel of Death. “Who are you here for?”
Azrael waved one hand, his silver skull and cross ring flickering in the late winter sunshine. “I’m not here on business.” He gestured to the west. “I’m heading off to Loretto Hospital later, but I thought I’d stop in and have coffee with a colleague before getting on with my day.” He grinned, making two women on their way to coffee counter stop in appreciation. One cold look from Azrael had them moving on shivering in the sudden chill.
“We’re not colleagues anymore.” Rue took back his coffee. It had been warm when Azrael had swiped it. A rime of frost n
ow ringed the cup.
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re lucky I like iced coffee.”
He clapped a hand to Rue’s shoulder making the man wince. “You’ve changed, Ruvan.”
A pulse of pain thrummed down the arm. He sipped. “Is that good or bad?”
Azrael remained silent for a moment, his gaze going distant. “I think it’s for the best.” A flare of freezing cold, a sharp burn of pain and the ache in the shoulder disappeared.
“Thanks,” Rue said, his breath puffing white with frost.
“Don’t mention it. Demon injuries have a tendency to infect more than not.”
“So, they were....”
The angel pinned the man with a look, freezing him as easily as he’d been a deer in headlights. “Don’t be a fool, Ruvan. You may not have wings, but you’re not an idiot. You didn’t lose all your instincts when the princes sent you here. Use them.”
“Have there been more of these attacks than we knew about?”
A helpless head shake. “I wish I knew. I know that there’ve been more and more who I’ve had to attend to personally, but what it means, your guess is as good as mine. Keep your eyes open.” Azrael checked his watch. “I need to get going. I have an appointment. Coffee’s on me.” He stood looking like he was trying to choose his words carefully. He shook his head, then nodded to Rue. “I’ll see you soon.”
Leaving those words to hang ominously behind him, Azrael ducked out the door, allowing himself to be swallowed in the early morning crowds.
Rue went back to the alley behind Serafina’s shop. A cloying stench hung in the air. One a human would most likely attribute to the bins of trash against the buildings, but he knew that smell – the sweet, rotting smell of demon. In the bright light of day most of the ominous shadows had disappeared. One dark blot of shadow still sat under the fire escape where he’d spent his first night in the mortal realm. No amount of sunshine seemed to penetrate the shadow, but even when he poked a foot into the shadow, he hit nothing but pavement and had a passerby looking at him like he was crazy. Hunching against the cold wind streaming through the narrow alleyway, he left. If the portal were still active, nothing would be able to come through in the light of day.
* * * *
Rue filled his day with words.
He found himself standing before the imposing edifice of the Harold Washington Library. The vaulted red brick building smelled of books and dust and held a reverent silence he hadn’t seen even in Holy Name Cathedral when he’d stopped by for a visit. Banks of computers stood to one side, but it was the stacks of books, stretching higher than a man could reach, that drew him. Students and the elderly camped at tables or sprawled on the floor in the stacks, surrounding themselves with words. Wires hung out of many an ear and one young man danced to a tune only he could hear.
Rue ran his hands over the spines of books. He’d seen few books in his place as a judge. Souls couldn’t carry anything but their deeds in life. He’d read them like books. Too often in the last centuries he’d read the same stories. Vice, greed, gluttony, waste and violence. His fingers trailed over the book spines. All that was here too. All those vices of human kind were contained in these pages. All the vices and all the virtues. Here too were stories of kindness, love, gratitude and redemption. Redemption. He sighed.
There would be no words of wisdom on the demons he’d seen last night. He would see nothing but mortal speculation and fiction on the subject, and possibly frighten his fellow patrons. He’d noticed in his weeks walking as one of them, that humans worried about quite a bit. He knew he would find little of demonkind here in the building dedicated to knowledge, but he could find humankind. Keep his eyes open. Follow his instincts.
Dust motes danced in the sunlight from the windows and he pulled a volume by the Bard. Sitting on the floor, Shakespeare’s words flowing like water around him, he settled in. Portia’s words echoed most clearly in his mind:
PORTIA: The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.
Mercy, he thought, running his finger over the word. Mercy is an attribute of God himself. Rue felt hollow. His shoulders itched, though it had been a week since he’d had a session with Joss. He’d been sent to find his own mercy, his own compassion. One could not judge when one had none, he’d been told. The Seraph princes had been very adamant about that.
He closed the book, replacing The Merchant of Venice on the shelf. A few stacks away he found Harper Lee. The Bard’s words, Portia’s words, were here too. Atticus Finch told his young daughter to walk a mile in a man’s moccasins before she judged him. Rue tucked a finger in the book to hold his place, turning his face up to the light streaming in through the windows above. Despite the bitter temperatures outside, fingers of sunlight slipped warm and soothing over his cheeks. Benediction and blessing. The itch between his shoulders eased.
Replacing Harper Lee’s work, he tucked his hands into his pockets prepared to follow the noble Southern lawyer’s advice. Michael had been right. He needed to live, he needed to learn the true heart of mankind and find his own mercy and compassion, in order to win back his wings and bask once more in the light from heaven’s throne. Live and learn, but stay aware. As it was written, there were more things in heaven and earth and, he added, all the worlds between.
* * * *
Joss was waiting for him. Fisting his hands in his pockets, he pushed back out into the late winter winds that whipped around the bases of the buildings. Buildings so tall they blotted out the sun and made dark valleys of the city streets.
Ears stinging from the cold, Rue pushed into the warmth of the Den. He looked around. The shop was quiet, empty. “Where’s…?”
“Place to ourselves today. Herm’s on vacay.” Joss laughed. “Went on a single’s cruise in the Bahamas. Like any woman in her right mind’s going to look at that inked, pot-bellied bastard. Ready for color, dude?”
He nodded, glancing over at the colored sketch pinned above Joss’ workspace. He noted that the sketch only appeared when he was there. He tugged off his coat, jerked his chin to the paper. “Why don’t you keep it up all the time?”
Joss followed his gaze. “I figured your art was covered for a reason, man. Didn’t want to advertise.”
He pulled off his shirt, nodded. “You’re a good man.”
Joss rubbed a hand over his left forearm. “All I can do is try.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment before breaking out into grins.
Joss snapped on his gloves, readied his equipment. “So, what’s the story?” He gestured with the stylus he was filling with color.
Rue shrugged and turned his back to the man. “It’s a long one.”
“A lot of them are.” The artist’s gloved hand brushed over the new shoulder wound. “What’s here, man? Didn’t have this last week, but it looks too old to have happened recently.”
He remembered the searing cold of Azrael’s touch. He should have thought about that. Humanity wasn’t comfortable with casual miracles. “I’m just a fast healer.” The lie felt heavy on his tongue.
He could feel Joss weigh his words, and wondered if their new accord had already been broken? The whir of the needle punched the silence. “Must be another chapter to that story, huh?”
Rue closed his eyes, feeling the s
tinging nip of the needles. “You have no idea.” They sat in silence for a moment. “So,” he smiled, “did your wife like the gift?”
He heard the grin in Joss’s voice. “Did she ever! Man, Fina never misses the mark. She’s gonna run herself out of business with that big heart of hers, but she’s a jewel.”
Rue felt his blood run thick in his veins at the memory of her hands and mouth on him in the pearly light of dawn. “She is special,” he murmured.
The stylus paused, powered down for a moment. He looked up, caught the speculative gaze and felt his face heat in a blush. “Yeah.” The man’s voice was serious. “She is special.” The needles seemed to bite a little deeper, the pain a little sharper when he fired it up again. “We’re real protective of her.”
Message received. Loud and clear. “I know why.” He tried not to flinch.
“You know her well?” Joss’ voice was forced casual.
“We’ve talked on a few occasions. I helped her out a couple of times.” Rue supposed he’d rescued her twice—once from her groceries and her own impatience, and once from the toughs. Which reminded him....
“Joss, have you heard anything about some guys in the neighborhood making trouble?”
He snorted out a laugh. “There’s always guys making trouble. You got no job, no education and no support, you start looking at the street for answers. Why?”
“Fina was almost mugged last night.”
“Shit!” The artist jerked away for which Rue was thankful.
He sat up, turned. “I was out walking last night.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, just wanted to walk.” He looked at Joss and saw someone to whom he didn’t have to explain the restlessness in his soul. “It was a good thing I couldn’t sleep.”
The artist’s chin jutted out, a pugnacious bulldog looking for an ass to chew. “You get the bastards?”
His mouth stretched into a smile and he flexed his hands. Azrael might have fixed the shoulder, but he hadn’t touched his raw knuckles. “We had words.”
Ascent of the Fallen Page 4